Rating: K
Genre: Future AU
Characters: Daisy


Peachy Keen

She could feel the rough skin along the folds of her fingers, the sides of her thumb, scrape on the little candy-striped paper bag as she slowly pushed her hand into it – furtively, like the one memory of her mother she'd managed to keep: pushing her hand into that soft linen pocket to see if she had a horse-chestnut from the lower reaches of the garden where she was never allowed to go. She'd been sick then as a girl, practically bedridden, her life so closeted and dull. She felt she'd been sick for so long even well into her adult life, her bed first the kitchens of the Abbey and then the farm of the man she'd come to call father; she'd forgotten how to do anything but to stretch and strain, to claw at the light.

It seemed ridiculous that now, as a forty-something year-old woman, a thing as simple as the tube of lipstick, a faux tortoiseshell as glossy as a horse-chestnut freshly freed from its spiky cradle, would seem so precious, so decadent. But she consoled herself with the fact that just as precious as the chestnut had seemed to her younger self, so too was this allowed to be precious and exciting now. After all, the war was over, and that if nothing else was cause for a small indulgence.

She sniffed the bag it'd come in; it still smelled of the powder and jasmine of the cosmetics counter in Debenhams, and this and the little jagged edges of the bag tickled her nose and reminded her of the dazzling mirrored counters, the gilded handrails on the short steps between departments and the way her shoes clicked on the polished tile. The little receipt she'd been given, with its blue-inked numbers, like bird feet, rustled around inside as though excited for her too. The tube was stood carefully on its foot on her vanity while she carefully folded the bag into quarters and tucked it into her jewelry box for now among the other sparse frivolities and obscure items of sentiment.

Then of course, she returned her attention to the tube itself. Taking it reverently in what she felt to be unworthy, clumsy fingertips – no matter how much she told herself to the contrary – she opened it, and placed the lid carefully back on the whitewashed wood. A twist gently at the base, and the lipstick itself rose into the light, pristine as a candle flame. It was a bold, somewhat dark apricot-coral – the color she imagined tropical flowers to be – matched nothing she owned, and she loved it. They'd named it 'Peachy Keen' and it made her feel flirty without even wearing it; she had no idea if it really would suit her as much as the beautician behind the counter had professed, but she didn't care. It made her smile just to look at it.

She couldn't remember the last time she'd bought herself something frivolous. And on the surface this seemed an unwise purchase – she had no-one to wear it for, much less anywhere to wear it – but she didn't feel the buyer's remorse her normally practical mind had cultured in her. She remembered the feeling of rebelliousness as she'd handed over her note and coins, knowing that instead of putting that money toward the endless list of improvements for the farm, she was spending it on herself, on something she didn't need, on something that gave her joy rather than something that merely tided her over for another day.

Excited as the day she'd received her first Valentine, she twisted her body on her little hard vanity stool and with her free hand, snatched the beauty magazine she'd found discarded behind the chair in the dentist's office a few days ago. She found the page she'd dog-eared and opened it to the double-spread that'd guide her – Rita Hayworth advertising Cover Girl, and an exclusive interview with the rising star Grace Kelly. Placing the magazine flat on her vanity, she peered close in the lamplight and dragged her old folding mirror closer. She studied the delicate bow of their lips, how much more luscious their mouths were compared to hers, and wished she'd listened to the beautician when she talked intimidatingly about lipliner and Vaseline.

I'll try my best with what I have, she thought, and carefully brought the lipstick near her mouth. She conjured images of the glamorous ladies she'd seen in the films, the pictures, waving her hand a little, trying to copy memories of how she'd seen them apply their own lipstick so expertly, barely looking. It made her heart beat faster – thoughts of ruining the pristineness of it on her silly face flitted through her mind, nearly made her tuck it away and forget the whole thing.

Frowning at herself in her little mirror, she blinked, breathed in deep.Lady Edith wouldn't be afraid, and certainly not Lady Sybil or Lady Mary. Lady Grantham wouldn't either. So I shan't be afraid. I shan't be afraid of joy.

She tilted her head back and drew her lips taut, pressing the heel of the lipstick to her bottom lip and tugging it testily over the middle. She drew it back, as though afraid, and examined the thumbprint-sized smear she'd made. Encouraged, her hand as poised as when she decorated a cake, she drew over first her bottom lip and then her top lip, using the point of the lipstick to paint the tips of her Cupid's bow, the thinner corners. Carefully, she pressed her lips together and rubbed them ever so slightly, drew the bullet-like tube away to inspect her handiwork.

She smiled at herself. The color brought out the sparkle in her eyes, and reminded her of love. I shan't be afraid of joy. Happy Birthday, Daisy Mason.